


five times michael saves jon's life and one time he doesn't have to

by boldlygoingnowherefast



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:22:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23659066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boldlygoingnowherefast/pseuds/boldlygoingnowherefast
Summary: Jon is really tired of getting into life-threatening danger, and for some reason, the Distortion seems to share his irritation.
Relationships: Michael/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 25
Kudos: 222





	five times michael saves jon's life and one time he doesn't have to

**Author's Note:**

> hello tma fandom! I've finally gotten far enough in this podcast that I feel comfortable posting fic, so here you go. have this silly thing. (I am nearing the end of season 3, and I would very much love to not be spoiled thank you!)
> 
> This takes place in a nebulous part of season 3 that doesn't exist, but whatever. Jon hasn't been kidnapped yet and that's all that matters.

1.

“That was very stupid.”

Jon stares at the swirling, impossible figure that looms in the far corner of Artefact Storage, its grin a headache and its fingers curling and uncurling, forever.

“What do you want?” he asks. He doesn’t have the patience for whatever games Michael is here to play. Even when Michael is there to help, it’s always playing games.

“There’s no other way out of this room, you know,” Michael croons.

“What?”

“You don’t have time to escape before they get here.”

Cold fear runs down Jon’s back. “The… not-Sasha? But the table…”

“Was binding it quite effectively.” Michael’s tone is always amused, but now it swells with something particularly smug.

Dread takes hold of him. “No, no, no.”

Still smiling, Michael says, “Even with all the protections you have on, I doubt you can survive them now.”

Jon is panicking. He thought he had figured out where all the clues led, what the answer to this puzzle was. What a fool he’d been, so sure of himself but so, so wrong. He can hear the imposter calling his name in the distance, and it’s no longer pretending to be Sasha. Its voice has gone warped and sing-songy, and Jon knows that once that thing enters the room with him, it will surely kill him.

“You need a door,” Michael says, drawing his attention again, and Jon watches as a yellow door creaks open next to Michael’s outstretched hand where there had been nothing but the open space of Artefact Storage.

Beyond that door lies madness and Jon won’t go willingly. “No. No! I just need…”

In the distance, another door creaks open, and Jon can hear the terrifying hiss of the creature that isn’t Sasha, and his heart rockets into his throat.

Michael’s smile is as inviting as it is bloodthirsty, and Jon realizes he doesn’t really have a choice. It’s either being torn to pieces by an evil shapeshifter or trust that Michael has some semblance of a plan and a desire to keep the Archivist alive. 

He steps through the yellow door to the sound of Michael’s rolling, warped laugh.

2.

A lot happens in a short period of time, and it doesn’t leave Jon much room to breathe. Leitner is dead, Elias is a murderer, and Jon serves a higher power he hadn’t known existed. A world that didn’t make much sense turns into a world that makes Jon’s head spin and panic hop in his chest when he thinks about it too hard. In comparison to all that, Michael is almost… familiar.

Michael saved his life, and though its intentions aren’t clear, are never clear, it seems that it’s interested in Jon’s continued existence. Jon might not trust Michael, but he’s decided to stop actively worrying about the Distortion. There are much more pressing issues to deal with.

Jon hasn’t returned to the Archives since Leitner and the not-Sasha, but he’s beginning to think it might be time. Georgie is a wonderful friend, but he feels like he’s overstepping and he doesn’t want to endanger her any further. He needs his own flat, and as loathe as he is to admit it, he needs his friends in the Archives.

It’s a quiet evening, and Jon had needed some fresh air after reading the latest statement sent to him by Elias. Even though Jon hasn’t felt safe in a long time, there’s something comforting about the dark, quiet streets of London right after sunset. He knows he’s probably pushing his luck, going out into the darkness alone like this, but he figures if some unknown force wanted to off him, they could do it at any time. The thought isn’t much comfort, but it’s enough to allow him this early evening walk.

He can hear a couple bickering about the woman's parents on the front steps of their townhouse, and the normalcy of the argument soothes Jon further. Even though his world has been turned on its head, there are people in London still living their lives, and that’s a good enough reason for Jon to keep going.

He’s distracted by these thoughts, so it takes him a moment to hear it: a low hissing groan that comes from the alley to his right. Jon pauses, and for a second, his mind is blessedly blank before dread takes hold of him. That groan didn’t come from anything human, that’s for certain, and the inky blackness of the alley is thicker than it should be on a night with the moon so bright.

 _“Archiviiiist,”_ the thing hisses.

Wonderful.

A hand darts out of the darkness and grabs Jon’s wrist. It’s ice-cold and a mottled grey color that turns Jon’s stomach. He gasps and tries to tug his hand away, but the grip is like iron, and it’s steadily dragging him toward the darkness in the alley. His wrist burns like white fire, like touching freezing metal with your bare skin, and his heels drag uselessly on the pavement.

Jon lets out a cry of fear as the darkness looms closer, but the street is suddenly empty, and the flats he can see from his position on the street have dark windows, lonely and deaf to his calls for help.

Jon doesn’t know what has him, exactly, but he realizes with a slow crawl of horror that this might be it. This might be what ends his life.

The world to his right warps and bends, and then a familiar laugh fills the air.

“The Archivist, in trouble again. How exciting.”

“Michael,” Jon gasps, still tugging against his captor. It stands only a few feet away, its grin wide as it watches Jon struggle.

“You must be more careful, little Archivist, walking out alone like this. You shine like a beacon, you know, and anything that has a chance to grab you will certainly try.”

The toes of Jon's shoes have almost reached the stark line of the dark, and he flinches backward in panic.

Michael sighs, sounding put-upon. “It’s not yet your time to die, as much as it would amuse me.”

There’s the sound of a creaking door and Michael’s echoing laughter, and then Jon’s world spins sickeningly. He falls backward and hits his head on what feels like plaster. He’s in a winding hallway, and then he’s flat on his back, staring up at the cold moon.

It takes a few seconds for the world to stop spinning, and when it does, Jon realizes he’s lying on Georgie’s front porch, in the yellow pool of light cast by the porch light. Jon could almost imagine that the whole thing didn’t happen at all, but there’s a band of stinging, frostbitten skin on his wrist where the creature grabbed him.

“Until next time, Archivist,” Michael says. “Do try to stay alive.”

Its laughter fades away, and Jon is alone. He stops going on nighttime walks after that, even after the patch of ice-burned skin heals.

3.

Jon returns to the Archives, and life might not be what anyone would classify as “normal,” but it settles. Jon records statements and sends his assistants to do follow-ups and investigations, and he ignores the feeling of being watched (there’s nothing any of them can do about Elias right now, anyway).

It feels good to be able to throw himself into the work again. It gives him a feeling of control, imaginary or not it doesn’t matter.

The statement he’s working on involves a woman who was certain her house was aging around her, threatening to entomb her within its crumbling walls that had once been only a few years old. She had mentioned the books on her bookshelf turning from pulpy true crime and romance novels into manuscripts written in Latin and old English. When she had picked one of them up, her hand had immediately shriveled in age, and she was worried that the rest of her would follow suit if she continued living in that house. Every time she tried to move, though, something prevented her from being able to do so.

The statement was given three years ago, but Martin confirmed that the house in that area was still standing and still owned by one Yasmin Naser. Getting in contact with Naser is proving impossible, which means the only way they’re going to get any more information is to visit the house in person.

It’s a quiet Tuesday afternoon and all the assistants are busy with various tasks. He could easily wait until tomorrow when he knows Martin or Basira will be available to give Naser a visit, but he’s beginning to get antsy within the Archives, and he decides it wouldn’t hurt to make the visit himself.

The street Naser’s home sits on is a quaint one, the type with painted letterboxes and little gardens teeming with greenery in their front yards. The townhouses themselves are small but well-kept, and Jon wonders how a house that’s apparently aging at a rapid pace could go unnoticed in a place like this.

He reaches number 313 and stops in front of it on the pavement. There’s nothing immediately unusual from this angle. It’s painted pastel green, and the garden looks well-tended. It’s not until he stares for a few moments that he realizes how empty the windows look, and he can see that along the edges of the panes, right where they touch the glass, the paint has chipped and peeled.

He approaches warily. The more he stares at this house, the more he’s sure the front of it is nothing more than a mask to hide the rot that lurks within. There’s a musty smell in the air, and it draws Jon closer and closer to the townhouse, until he stands in front of the white steps that lead onto the front porch.

The musty smell is even thicker here, so much that Jon nearly chokes on it. He takes a breath and climbs the four creaking steps up onto the porch. The front door has an open panel where a piece of frosted glass sits, and though it’s opaque enough that the inside is nothing but cloudy shapes, there’s something off about the shapes Jon can see through it.

The house is surrounded by a pocket of quiet that Jon doesn’t notice at first, not until a motorcycle drives by and Jon realizes it’s only a gentle buzz. He’s suddenly sure there hasn’t been anyone in and out of it in years, despite the fact that Naser still owns it.

Jon reaches for the handle on the front door. It matches the front of the house in that it seems fine when you first glance at it, but there’s a thick layer of rust that rings the edge, right where it touches the door.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were yoouuu,” sings a voice by his ear, and Jon nearly jumps out of his skin at the sudden break in the muffled silence.

Michael stands next to him on the porch, his smile like the buzz of too much alcohol.

Jon’s hand is still hovering over the doorknob, and he lowers it to his side. “What now?”

“If the Archivist wants to remain in this timeline, he must not interact with the House-Out-of-Time.”

Jon glances at the house again, feels the secrets lurking within its walls. “Is this your doing, then?”

Michael tilts its head, considering. “I am responsible for many things to do with time, yes, but this is not ours.” Its grin widens and Jon blinks away the dizziness. “You’re learning, Archivist.”

Jon pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. “I’m here because the woman who owns the place gave a statement three years ago. What happened to her?”

Michael hums thoughtfully. “She is no longer your concern. The only thing you will find upon entering that house is your own destruction.”

Jon bristles. “So, what, I’m just supposed to let it go? Not worry about whatever it was that killed her?”

“Yes. There are many things to worry about, but the ones you cannot change are nothing but a waste of your time.”

Jon deflates. He doesn’t know what it is, but something is telling him Michael isn’t lying. Michael hasn’t lied since he started appearing to them, and the more Jon thinks about it, the more he realizes that Michael has truly been acting in their best interest since Sasha met him outside her flat. 

Him. It. Jon doesn’t know, and the feeling makes his head hurt.

“How long until I’m no longer useful?” Jon finally asks. “You keep saving my life, and I appreciate it, but my usefulness to the Distortion has to end at some point, right? I know your first inclination is to kill me or trap me in your mazes or whatever it is that you do, so I suppose I’m wondering how long I have left.”

Michael’s smile dims a few notches, and if Jon didn’t know better, he’d say the creature wasn’t expecting Jon’s question. “We have no intention of killing you,” Michael finally says.

“Never?”

The silence that follows is strange, and Jon feels a weird urge to fidget under the Distortion’s unwavering stare.

“Archivists and their need to Know. They Ask and Ask and never supply anything in return.”

“Do you want something in ret—”

“Goodbye, Archivist. Do not enter that house. Or _do_ … if you don’t value your continued existence.”

And then Michael is gone, and Jon is left standing on the porch, alone and even more confused than before.

It’s not until much later, after he’s returned to the Archives and started working on a new statement, that he realizes during the entire encounter with Michael, he had forgotten to be afraid.

4.

After the incident with the aging house, the Distortion keeps coming up in Jon’s thoughts. Michael has saved him a handful of times now, with very little explanation. Jon had assumed it was because the Stranger’s plans to bring about the end of the world ran against what the Distortion wanted, and Jon is the best tool for stopping them, but Jon can’t help but feel there’s something personal about the way Michael keeps intervening in Jon’s early demise. There’s something to it that he can’t place a finger on.

Jon tries not to let these thoughts distract him, but while perplexing, it’s one of the less frightening mysteries in Jon’s life at the moment.

The streets around the Archives are crowded with the midday lunch rush, and Jon has to twist a few times to avoid shoulder-checking the pedestrians that get too close. Basira and Melanie decided that Jon needed a breath of fresh air and a cup of coffee and had dragged him out of the Archives, which is why he’s trailing behind them as they head towards the nearest coffee shop. 

Despite his protests, Jon is glad they insisted. It’s a pleasantly warm day, and the sun feels good on his face after so long in his windowless office. Basira and Melanie are chatting easily, and Jon feels comfortable enough to let them talk without chiming in. Right now, they’re discussing their coffee drinking habits, and for a split-second, Jon imagines that their lives are normal—that they’re just some coworkers going out for coffee with nothing more to worry about than the simplicities of their work.

The feeling doesn’t last, not with the way Jon’s life has careened wildly out of control recently, but it’s a nice fantasy.

“I love iced coffee, but I drink it too quickly, and it gives me the nastiest brain freeze,” Melanie is saying. “That’s why I don’t drink it very often.”

“I’ve always wondered what makes some people more susceptible to brain freeze,” Basira replies. “What even _is_ brain freeze?”

“Hell if I know,” Melanie says as they step out into a crosswalk.

Jon trails behind them and glances up at the blue of the sky, wondering how it is the world can still look so lovely when hiding the darkest of secrets. It’s like a poisonous frog, Jon thinks, bright and alluring and full of danger.

The screech of tires on asphalt drags Jon back to reality, and he has only a second to notice the wreck that’s taking place right in front of him and skidding dangerously in his direction. He throws his hands up, but he has no time to do anything else in the split second he has before he gets crushed to death.

Of all the things to kill him.

Jon closes his eyes and expects the deadly crunch of metal and blood and agony, but what he gets instead is a familiar static accompanied by the feeling of something wrapping around his waist, and then his world _spins._

Jon goes tumbling, not to unforgiving asphalt, but to a thin carpet, and his fall is less abrupt than he imagined it would be.

He stares in stunned silence up at electric lights in a dim hallway, but his vision is quickly eclipsed by a familiar figure looming over him.

“Are you trying to end your life?” Michael hisses at him. Here in his hallways, he looks even more inhuman. The curve of his mouth is sharp, and the edges of him aren’t quite right.

Michael’s tone, usually more amused than not, is edging on _not_ amused, and Jon blinks up at him in befuddlement. 

“Sorry?”

His hair swirls around him in dizzying coils, and his round face is twisted in anger.

“I—I’m not _trying_ to get myself killed,” Jon replies, mind still muddled with shock. “There was a _car accident,_ and—”

“You are lucky I was _watching,_ Archivist.”

“Thank you for saving me. Again,” Jon says. “You keep doing that.”

“Silly little Archivist, so vulnerable and confused. The last one was much hardier than you.”

“Until she was murdered, sure.”

“She was murdered, but not by a _car._ ” The humor is back in Michael’s expression, as though the thought of Jon getting hit by a car is funny enough to bring him out of his rage.

The absurdity of the whole thing is not lost on Jon. He’s fully aware of the wild careening path his life has taken away from normal, and apparently the natural progression of that path is the entity of madness saving him from being crushed by a car and then getting mad at him for it. He can’t help the laugh that escapes his mouth as he lies there on the yellowed carpet of the Distortion’s hallways.

“You find something amusing?” Michael asks.

Jon gestures vaguely. “All of this is outrageous. And you’re, you’re what? My strange guardian angel? Protecting me from any number of dark creatures as well as motor vehicle accidents.”

“You’re not afraid of me,” Michael says after a few moments of silence.

“You’re dangerous, I know that,” Jon replies. “But you can’t keep saving my life and expect me to stay afraid.”

Michael’s edges get strange, and Jon thinks he may have angered him, but it doesn’t last. “You’re getting cocky, Archivist. You don’t know my motivations.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not special. Everyone has hidden motivations. I’m a bit tired of it, truthfully.” Jon sits up and leans against the green, swirling wallpaper. “Continue being all mysterious when you do nothing but intervene to keep me alive and I’m going to start thinking you _like_ me, or something.”

Michael’s head tilts curiously, and then the hallway is gone, and Jon is sitting on the curb, staring at the aftermath of a wreck that sits in the middle of the intersection. Michael hadn’t even laughed that time.

“Jon!”

Jon looks up to see Basira and Melanie, their faces full of shock and worry.

“What the hell happened?” Basira asks.

“We heard the collision and turned around, and you were being dragged into a weird parallel dimension by some _creature._ ”

“You saw that, huh?” Jon wonders if Michael made himself visible to Melanie and Basira on purpose. Judging by the lack of panic of everyone else standing near the intersection, no one else saw Michael.

“Yes, we saw!” Melanie replies.

“That was Michael, the Distortion. He keeps saving my life, weirdly enough.”

“A monster of confusion… keeps saving your life,” Basira says in a flat voice. “Why?”

“Hell if I know. In the beginning, he told me I was needed to save the world, but now I’m not so sure.”

“Can avatars be gay?” Melanie asks.

“I don’t see why not,” Basira replies. “Elias is definitely—”

“Can you two not do this,” Jon says wearily. The thought of Michael not only liking him, but _liking_ him is too much. There has to be something else going on, surely.

“I dunno, Jon,” Melanie says. “Could be fun, having a boyfriend who—”

“Please,” Jon interrupts again. “Don’t.”

They get their coffee, and Basira and Melanie don’t bring up Michael again, but Jon can feel their curious looks across the café table and knows exactly what they’re thinking about.

5.

Getting stabbed isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, Jon thinks, even when the person stabbing you is just a regular man who wants your wallet and not some dark creature who prowls the night looking for unsuspecting victims.

Jon lays on the wet pavement and stares up at his attacker, a hand pressed tightly against the bleeding wound in his side. “Please, just take my wallet,” Jon says. “You can have it.”

The man had stabbed him for being snarky, or at least, that’s what he had told Jon. It’s not Jon’s fault he’s used to dealing with beings much more terrifying and had underestimated how much a stab wound would hurt.

“Too late for that, mate,” the man says, looming over him. “I think I’m going to kill you.”

He grabs the front of Jon’s shirt and hauls him upwards. The knife glints in the light of the streetlamp when he holds it up to Jon’s face. It’s not a huge knife, but it will certainly do the trick of killing him if this man uses it properly.

“I hate pompous bastards,” the man says and holds the knife up to Jon’s throat. The metal is cold and sharp against his skin.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” sings a familiar voice, and Jon almost sags in relief.

“Who the _hell_ do you think—?”

The man catches sight of who spoke, judging by the way his threat trails off into a horrified whimper.

Michael is just barely illuminated by the pool of orange light cast by the streetlamp, his hands trailing by his side, sharp, large, and dangerous, and very obviously not human. His smile has too many teeth.

“What the fuck. What the fuck,” the man chants, and Jon’s head hits the pavement hard as the man releases him and stands. “Don’t come any closer, you weirdo,” the man says, holding his knife in front of him like it will do any good against Michael.

Jon thinks about asking Michael to spare this man’s life, but he can’t bring himself to care that much, not when he was about to split Jon’s throat.

“Run all you like,” Michael says, and then laughs his echoing, horrible laugh. “Run, run away.”

The man does as Michael suggests, taking off down an alley.

“He’s going to end up going through one of your doors, isn’t he?” Jon says wearily, feeling a bit lightheaded with blood loss.

“That alley never existed,” Michael replies with a smug glint in his eyes.

Jon glances to the side and sees the incriminating expanse of unbroken brick. “Well. Thank you.”

Jon does not see Michael move, but in the next second, a hand is gripping the front of his shirt and hauling him to his feet. The world swims.

“I stabbed you, when we met,” Michael says, lingering in Jon’s space. His hand in Jon’s collar is enough to keep Jon on his feet despite his spinning head. One of his knuckles is brushing Jon’s chin, and Jon clearly recalls the way Sasha had described them—leathery and sharp and not warm like human skin. “I had no intention of killing you, though.”

“This stab wound is worse,” Jon replies. “Do you think you could let me—?”

“I thought about what you said,” Michael interrupts as if Jon hasn’t spoken. “About me saving you because I’m fond of you. You have surprised me, Archivist. It’s not often that the Spiral deceives itself.”

“What do you mean?” Jon asks.

“You and your questions,” Michael admonishes, but Jon thinks his tone sounds fond. “Motives are tricky things, and though I’ve been acting on what I thought was my only motive, I seem to have been ignoring another entirely. You intrigue me, Archivist, and it has been _so long_ since we’ve felt that about someone.”

Jon thinks some sort of confession is happening, but his world is going fuzzy around the edges, and the patch of warm wetness down his side is worrying. He blinks and tries to focus. “You can call me Jon, you know,” he manages.

“Jon… How strange.”

Jon isn’t sure what about it is strange, but then he feels something touch his forehead. As blood loss finally tugs him into the darkness, he realizes with faint surprise that Michael might have just kissed his forehead.

Jon wakes up on an unfamiliar couch and groans at the pulsing pain in his side.

“Jon?”

Martin steps into view, looking ruffled and worried, which isn’t uncommon for him. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Like I got stabbed,” he replies and notices that his wound has been bandaged carefully. “How?” He swallows through the dryness in his throat. “How did I get here?”

Martin shuffles nervously in the middle of his living room. “I was having a cup of tea and watching telly, and this door? Just sort of appeared in the wall over there. It took me a second to notice it, and then when I did, for a moment I thought I had forgotten I had that door in the first place. But then it opened and that creature Michael carried you out and set you on my couch. Gave me quite a fright, to be honest.”

Jon sighs. “I’m sorry about that, Martin. Did he say anything to you?”

“It—He told me to make sure you didn’t die.” Martin’s brow furrows. “Did he stab you?”

“No. No, he actually saved my life.” The thought of Michael carrying him to Martin, a person he knew would make sure Jon was okay, sits weirdly warm in Jon’s stomach.

Martin’s frown doesn’t ease. “What did stab you, then?”

Jon slides a hand through his hair. “I, uh. I got mugged.”

“Jon! How do these things keep happening to you?”

“That is a very good question.”

Martin sits in the chair across from him and is silent for a few moments before speaking again. “Why did Michael save you from a mugger? Isn’t he an avatar of chaos or something?”

“I asked him the same thing. He, uh.” Jon winces and wonders how much he should tell Martin. The fact is, his assistants are remarkably good at finding out a lot of things, and this kind of secret won’t stay secret for long. “I think Michael likes me. _Like_ likes me.”

Martin’s mouth opens and closes a few times. “Is that even… Are you sure?”

“He keeps saving my life, and well, he may have kissed me?”

“He… kissed you.”

“On the forehead.”

“Well.” Martin stares at him in silence for a moment. “I suppose it’s hard to assume much else from that.”

“That’s what I thought,” Jon replies. “I must say, it’s come as a bit of a shock.”

“It’s not the worst surprise, though, right? He could have a vendetta against you or something. At least this way he won’t hurt you? Hopefully.”

Jon thinks he agrees with that.

“Thank you for patching me up,” he says.

Martin smiles. “Of course.”

Martin insists Jon stay the night on his couch, and Jon spends most of it thinking about large hands and a sharp grin.

+1

Jon’s side heals, and he doesn’t have any near-death experiences for a few weeks. He isn’t complaining, but he hasn’t seen Michael since that strange night, and he finds himself waiting for Michael to show up, or to hear his laugh without warning.

Jon keeps running that conversation over and over again in his mind, fighting through the haze of blood loss that sits over those memories. He wishes he could remember what Michael’s face had looked as he told Jon he was fond of him. He wishes he could remember exactly how Michael’s mouth had felt against his forehead.

Jon knows it’s ludicrous. He knows pondering his feelings for a murderous creature of distortion is stupid. But he can’t help himself, not really. Michael has captured his attention, and Jon has always been too curious for his own good.

He wonders what it would take to get Michael to show up again. He considers simply calling out to him, but that feels asinine and more than a bit childish. Stepping in front of another car will likely just get him killed or maimed. It doesn’t seem likely that Michael will save him from the same thing twice.

Jon spends his time thinking about ways to summon Michael and not acting on any of them. He wonders if Michael were a normal person he’d be having the same problem. Would he be staring at his phone and wondering if he should call Michael? It seems likely. Jon has never been good when it comes to matters of affection, or even friendship, if he’s being honest.

Jon gets caught up in researching a statement regarding a creature he believes is involved with the Stranger and forgets about Michael for a few days.

After following another dead end, Jon comes back to his office feeling more than a little frustrated. Exhaustion pulls at his shoulders as he opens the door to his office and wonders if he should just call it a day. The exhaustion will chase him home, but at least he won’t be weighed down by being in the Archives.

There’s someone in his chair.

“Hello, Archivist,” Michael says. 

There are flowers on his desk. Lilies, arranged carefully in a vase like they belong there. Jon stands in the doorway for a moment, his brain struggling to catch up to what he’s seeing.

“Did you buy me flowers?”

“There’s a lovely little flower shop near Finsbury Park, you know. Humans like flowers, don’t they?”

“Uh. Yes?”

“You haven’t gotten in trouble recently, and I realized that I quite missed seeing you. Flowers seemed like a good enough excuse to stop by.”

“You missed me?” Jon asked, increasingly more dumbfounded.

Michael stands to his full height, rounds the desk, and stops a few feet from Jon. “Even when the answer is right in front of you, you have such trouble grasping it. Silly Archivist.”

“I told you you could call me Jon.”

“You were a bit _delirious_ with blood loss.” His mouth curves on the word ‘delirious,’ and Jon watches the motion.

“Well, I meant it.”

Michael steps closer, until Jon has to look up to meet his eyes. “Jon. You are a part of the Eye and I am the Spiral. You Know and I Lie. We are not compatible.” Michael tilts his head. “And yet, I find myself drawn to you in a way that makes no sense. Perhaps that too is part of my nature. Perhaps there is comfort in pieces that don't fit quite right.”

“What do you want, Michael?” Jon asks.

Normal, human-looking fingers touch Jon’s jaw, and they feel anything but. Jon can’t bring himself to be unsettled by it.

“I make doors where there are no doors. I invite myself where I am not wanted. I would like to be invited and wanted, for once.”

Jon stares up at the man with a too-wide smile in a round face framed by wild curls and lifts his hand to cover the strange one resting on his jaw. “That sounds nice.”

When Michael kisses him, Jon’s world tilts on its axes a bit, but he finds he doesn’t mind.

The lilies die quicker than they should, but Michael tells Jon he’ll bring him more. And he does.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](https://paisleycowboys.tumblr.com)


End file.
